I remember those first days. How the leaves were stuck still; nothing to disturb them. Well, there was truth to that; we couldn’t go out in public because of this virus. Cases rose. What was it: ten or a thousand? It was too fast to tell. But in my house, nothing was fast. I spent my days melting in the sun, and being forced to go on long walks in the park. it was lonely; just me and this virus, and who knew if I could even outlive it. What if- 

“Ringgg”.

  A sharp sound penetrated my foggy brain. My mom's voice chirps in my mind to this day;

 “I'm sure Daphne will love to check it out”, was all I overheard. 

Apparently, there was a fallen nest next to a dead momma bird and my family was tasked with saving the little ones inside. How hopeless they were, huddled in the corner of a wet straw nest. How do you raise a pair of mystery birds so young they’re see-through? 

First: food. We scrambled eggs and fed them with a little syringe. They would smell so bad afterward, it was always my job to give them a paper towel bath. Feeding them every twenty minutes, gave me no choice but to bond with those birds. Imagine my disappointment when the strongest one, which seemed to be doing so well, died. What! he was doing so well! Which could only mean the weaker bird would follow. The internet said she had a 5% chance of making it through its first 7 days and a 12% chance after that. So seven days was the goal. It was day 3. Her brother had died on day two. 

We got to work, forcing her to eat, keeping her warm, and building her muscles for the strength to survive. But the bird wouldn't eat much, and she seemed so weak. 

It was the morning of day 7. This part would be a little scary; lifting that green top off the box that held her nest. My worst fears were confirmed: no breath; maybe because there’s no bird.

 “MOM! I can't find her!" I yelled.

How in the world! Did something get in to snatch her? We didn’t just have a pet bird of prey perched in our house. I knew the chances were bad, but she couldn’t just be gone. We frantically searched until–

“Daphne!” 

I tried to slow my breathing down just enough to hear my mom. 

“Listen!”

 And there in the silence came a beam of light produced by a sound. A little snip in the corner. Not quite a chirp, not quite a call, but a snip. She had survived. Not just that morning but the next as well. A little bird named Snips had beaten the 7 days; she continued to beat the next 7 months. She was surviving.

The leaves now flapped in the wind encouraged by Snips’s wings. She learned to practice-fly and then eventually fly; going out in the day and visiting on people's shoulders around town, brightening our days. Each night she returned at dinner, to eat alongside us and sleep in our kitchen.

I don’t think I realized how much we needed that little bird. There she was pushing through in a time that was stuck still. Sometimes we take for granted the little things. The joys of taking walks in the park or sitting for a meal at your favorite restaurant. And even if we’re deprived of those things, there will always be a Snips. Sitting on your shoulder, while you push through the leaves with your own wind.